The Rhubarb Patch

by Deanna Wadsworth

  “Are you really throwing us out?” Mom refilled her coffee, sounding wounded.

  That “I knew it” look from Dumbass forced Scott to soften his tone. If Joe wanted to paint Scott into a jealous mama’s boy to earn points, two could play that game.

  “With all the holiday traffic, it’ll get dangerous the longer you wait.” Scott joined her and smooched her cheek. “I want you to stay, but you work at midnight. My momma’s an important ER nurse. Lives depend on her. It would be selfish of me to ask you to stay, because then you’ll be tired during your shift.”

  That got her in the feels. “How did you turn out so great?” she asked, chucking him under the chin.

  “You should meet my mom.” Scott was laying it on thick, but he meant it. “She’s pretty great too. Now gimme some Mama Love.”

  Laughing, she hugged him.

  Though he knew it was childish, Scott gave Joe a smug smirk.

  She stepped back and patted his cheek. “I really do need to sleep before work. You know I can’t do this first-shift lifestyle. I was up twenty-four hours yesterday.”

  “I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m playing Mom and telling you to sleep on the drive home. Joe can unload the car so you can sleep before your shift. You can get all caught up.”

  “That sounds great.”

  If Dumbass didn’t insist she bake him cookies with the eleven-dollar flour.

  Not my ponies, not my parade, he told himself.

  Davis joined them and hugged her too, kissing her cheek. “I don’t really have to strip. You know I would never do that, right?”

  “I know,” she said. “You’re my hard worker. My big successful insurance agent.”

  “And I don’t work hard?” Scott countered.

  Davis put his arm around Mom, taking ownership of her in a way only Davis was allowed. He grinned at Scott. “Working hard at hardly working.”

  “You know I’m proud of you both,” she insisted. “Okay, boys, come in and gimme some sugar. There’s more than enough Mama Love to go around.”

  Mom loved to be smooshed in a hug with “her boys,” and it felt good, familiar, even with the interloper pouting and watching on.

  Suddenly it dawned on Scott who the jealous one really was. Scott was protective of his mother even if she annoyed him, but he wanted her to be happy, to find love. Joe was the one threatened by Scott and Davis. For good reason, he supposed. They would be around a lot longer than Joe would be.

  Not that he felt sorry for the dickwad.

  “C’mon, Dumbass,” Davis said to Joe, stepping out of the hug. “Let’s get the car loaded so Mom doesn’t have to do it.”

  “Piss off, Davis,” Joe snapped, his mood foul as he followed Davis to the car. The touchier he got about being called Dumbass—because it was true—the more Davis did it.

  While Scott insisted Mom could take the mug with her—Nancy had waaay too many mugs for one person—he heard a loud clucking sound outside his window.

  Davis popped his head in from the back porch. “You have wildlife out here.”

  He and Mom headed outside. “That’s Henrietta,” he explained. “She’s one of Phin’s chickens.”

  When the bird scurried back home, Davis squealed and ran out of her way. “Oh my God, you are on a farm! You have a chicken!”

  Scott laughed and headed into the bushes, where a little brown egg waited.

  “Gross!” Davis cried. “Don’t touch it. It was just up that chicken’s butt!”

  “Chickens don’t lay eggs out of their butt, dumbass,” Joe told him with a smug laugh.

  “Which is worse.” Davis shuddered. “You’re touching an egg that came out of a chicken’s va-jay-jay.”

  Shaking his head at his brother’s dramatics, Scott picked it up. “I’ll wash it when I get inside. Henrietta leaves me an egg for breakfast every morning. I think it’s kinda cool.”

  “How do you know it doesn’t have a baby chick in it?” Mom called to him when he went back onto the porch, Davis hot on his heels.

  “Because Phin doesn’t have a rooster.” He carefully set it on the chair inside the porch.

  “Maybe you’ll be playing with his rooster soon if you know what I mean,” Davis said, raising his brows stupidly and elbowing him in the side. “Cock-a-doodle-do-me!”

  “Shut up, Davis,” Scott snapped. “It’s not always about sex.”

  “Touchy, touchy,” he teased. “You must really have it bad for that guy.”

  Scott shoved him ahead of him and back outside.

  “Gross, you have chicken va-jay-jay on your hands!”

  As Scott predicted, while Mom and Dumbass loaded the bags in the trunk, he heard Joe ask her, “You gonna make those cookies when we get home? I don’t want you wasting eleven-dollar flour.”

  “Oh my God, stop me from punching him, will you?” Scott whispered to Davis.

  He gave him a limp-wristed shove. “Stop. Don’t hit him. I’ll be so upset if you hit him.”

  Laughing, Scott pushed him back.

  “Don’t touch me!” Davis squealed. “You have chicken pussy juice on your hands!”

  “You’re such a moron.” Then Scott turned away from the lovey-dovey couple and made a gagging gesture for only Davis to see. “Seriously, I hate him. But he’s already been around two years. What if this one sticks?”

  Dumbass at Thanksgiving every year? Kill me now!

  “They never stick,” Davis assured him sadly. “At least you don’t have to be in the car with him for three hours. Thank Gawd for earbuds.”

  When Scott hugged Mom goodbye, she whispered in his ear, “Can you please be nicer to Joe? He’s good to me.”

  Scott responded with “I love you, Mom.”

  She stepped back, and Dumbass made a show of getting the car door for her. “Aren’t you sweet,” she cooed, shooting Scott a “See? I told you so” look.

  Joe paused in front of Scott, getting close so he could tower over him, and Mom couldn’t hear. “Remember what I said.”

  Scott didn’t back down. “Lick my sac, Dumbass. I’ll always outrank you.”

  “So immature.” Scoffing, Joe went around to the driver’s side.

  Ugh, I hate you so much.

  Sneaking up on Scott, Davis put him in a headlock before kissing him six times all over the face. “Don’t do anything I’d do, cum breath.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And fix that shit with your bear,” he told him, tightening his hold. “Just wait a week like I said. Desperation is like perspiration. Bears can smell it.”

  Scott struggled to get away from more sloppy kisses. “I never should’ve told you anything.”

  “You tell me everything.”

  “Which I’m questioning,” Scott returned.

  Mom rolled her window down when they continued to wrestle. “Davis, let him go. It’s time to leave.”

  Davis licked his cheek, then released him.

  “Dammit, Davis!”

  “Woof, woof!” he chanted as he threw himself into the back seat. “Get you some of dat bear meat!”

  “Shut up,” Scott said, laughing and wiping his face dry. He pushed the door shut.

  “Don’t slam my car doors,” Joe barked.

  Davis flipped him the bird.

  Laughing at his brother and ignoring Joe, Scott kissed Mom’s cheek through the window. “Seriously, sleep when you get home.” He looked at Joe and added, “Drive safe.”

  “Always,” the man scoffed.

  Soon a cloud of dust kicked up by the gravel drive was all that remained of his family and the add-on idiot.

  Hands stuffed in his pocket, he watched the cloud dissipate, feeling lonelier than before. They annoyed him, but aside from Joe, he did love them.

  Eventually, the chirp of the birds and the soft rural sounds surrounded him. It was good to enjoy the quiet again. He hadn’t realized how much he’d grown accustomed to it. It startled him when he heard Phin’s voice.

  “Hey, Mouse.�
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  Scott jumped to see Phin getting his mail. “Hey.”

  “Family head home already?”

  “Just left. Saw you got a new bed.”

  “Yup.”

  One week, he reminded himself. No asking him what’s wrong for one week.

  Though it took all of his willpower, Scott waved and headed back to his house. “See you later, Phin.”

  WHERE TO get started?

  Hands on his hips, Scott stared at the master bedroom with its overflowing closets and bare mattress. Mom had stripped the bedding and put it in the washing machine before they left. Thank God. He shuddered. He did not want to think about what could’ve possibly happened on those bedsheets!

  He plopped down on the bed, something he hadn’t done since he’d moved in. He bounced in surprise, then lifted up the corner of the mattress pad.

  Wow, that’s an expensive mattress.

  When he lay back, he groaned.

  Why had he been sleeping on the rickety mattress in the guest room when this gorgeous, squishy memory-foam piece of heaven waited in the other room?

  Scott sat up quickly. “That’s it, Nancy,” he said out loud. “I’m moving in here.”

  He chuckled and looked around once more. The second granny doll was on the bedstand facing the wall.

  “You’re outta here just like your sister,” he told the doll.

  There was so much crap in this room that even the closet door didn’t shut all the way. He’d already taken a second batch of boxes to the grateful ladies at the church. Nancy must’ve been one of those people who yo-yoed with their weight because all the clothing and coats were in multiple sizes, some with tags still on them.

  With a sigh, he stood and set his three cardboard boxes on the bed—one to keep, one for trash, and a third to donate. After tossing Granny in the donate box, he tackled the nightstand drawer. All the usual things were inside. Prescription bottles, toenail clippers, and a couple Danielle Steel novels. Those made him smile. Everything but the books went into the trash box. It wasn’t like he would use someone else’s toenail clippers.

  Gross!

  Scott lost himself in the methodical task of dissecting his grandmother’s bedroom. He got distracted a few times when he found handwritten notes or photographs, items like that going into the keep box—to do what with he’d yet to determine. But it just didn’t feel right throwing away personal stuff, almost like he was throwing away parts of a woman he was slowly getting to know. Like she must’ve had a sweet tooth because, like the cash, there was chocolate stashed all over, though most of it was stale. He didn’t feel bad about getting rid of clothes, or the many duplicates of mail-order gadgets, or the knickknacks. It was definitely a little morbid determining what had value and what didn’t, but he remembered Phin told him Nancy liked to collect a lot of junk.

  Phin.

  That asshole.

  Scott didn’t even know what happened. Everything had been going great, and then Phin pulled back. No explanation. No reason. The old Scott would’ve gone over to his house, begging and trying to figure out why. But he was going to wait like Davis suggested. In seven days, he would march over there, knock on the door, and demand what the hell Phin’s problem was.

  If Phin wasn’t interested, then it was his loss.

  Irritably he tossed yet another stuffed teddy bear into the donation box.

  None of this was fair. Scott had fallen for Phin, hard. Phin was unlike anyone Scott had ever dated. Had they actually been dating? That’s what Scott thought was happening.

  “I guess you thought wrong,” he told himself as he carried the trash box downstairs. He went outside to the garbage cans and dumped the contents of his box. Every time he threw something away and bought something to replace it, the house felt a bit more like his, but it was bittersweet because for the house to become his, he had to remove someone else’s presence.

  Regardless, it needed to be done.

  He went back upstairs to the master bedroom. Maybe if he worked quickly, he could be sleeping in here tonight.

  Scott tackled the big armoire against the wall next. The piece of furniture had good bones, but the golden stain was not his style. Maybe he would go to the hardware store in Gilead and buy some paint. Mom always said it was sacrilegious to paint wood, but he’d come to Ohio to start doing things the way he wanted.

  So if Scott wanted to paint wood, then he would paint wood, dammit!

  Smiling to himself, he started thinking about colors, amused that Mom would be appalled he wanted to paint Amish oak furniture. He glanced at the nightstands and headboard, envisioning all of them painted. White? Black perhaps?

  Davis would know.

  He texted photos of the furniture to him with: I’m going to paint these.

  Scott’s assertiveness bubble deflated a little bit when he realized he was still seeking advice rather than being decisive.

  “Baby steps,” he muttered as he finished the text. I can’t decide on color. Black or white?

  It didn’t take Davis more than a minute to text back, obviously attached to his phone because they were still in the car with Dumbass. A charcoal gray would be better.

  Then Davis sent a photograph of a bedroom done in aqua, charcoal, and tan.

  Me likey, where can I buy that bedding? Scott asked.

  Naturally, the interior designer wannabe had several links. Chuckling Scott tossed his phone on the bed and began emptying the armoire. He emptied the bottom drawer first. No surprise. More clothes.

  Never in his life had he touched so many bras. And never in his life did he think he’d be handling granny panties. He tossed those into the trash box. There was a box of gauze in the drawer, so he opened it. No cash, just gauze. He added it to the keep box.

  He still couldn’t believe he’d found over two thousand dollars in the house. The latest stash of six hundred and eighty-five dollars had been under the bathroom sink in a box of bladder protection pads. All the money would almost cover his quarterly taxes. Maybe if he kept finding cash, he could make a dent in his credit cards too. Especially now that he didn’t have a car payment.

  Who would’ve thought six months ago Scott would be ahead of the game financially?

  After laying out all the sweaters for the donation box, Scott only had the top shelf left to clear.

  Yeah, this armoire will look great in charcoal.

  He slid out a shoebox and opened the lid. It was jam-packed with letters. Overcome with curiosity, Scott pushed aside the keep box and sat down. Rather than pulling a letter out at random, he selected the one in front.

  He nearly passed out when he saw the name on the front of the green envelope.

  Scott Howe.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ALL THE envelopes in the box were addressed to Scott.

  His hands shook and his stomach knotted. He sniffed once, then realized he had tears on his face. He wiped them away with the back of his arm. His hands shook as he stared at the first envelope.

  The postmark was over twenty years ago.

  The decades had not changed his mother’s handwriting. On every single letter were three words:

  Return to Sender.

  He took a slow, steadying breath, his eyes still weeping.

  He didn’t understand why he was crying. Anger, shock, frustration? Maybe a desperate sense of wanting to be loved and accepted by a family he never knew.

  Nancy had been writing him for years.

  And his mother had sent every single one of them back.

  Why?

  He brushed his face, determined not to allow the growing anger at Mom to affect him until he understood more. He looked at the envelopes, sorted by date. The one in front was first, postmarked December. A Christmas card.

  How old had he been?

  He tried to do the math in his head but was too frustrated. He grabbed the cell phone—ignoring the texts Davis sent about pillows and other accessories for his bedroom—and opened the calculator app.

&
nbsp; Five years old.

  His grandmother had sent him a Christmas card the year after they moved away.

  He stared at the old green envelope for a long time. He traced each chicken-scratch letter of his name with an index finger, wondering what Nancy had been thinking when she mailed this first card.

  Had she known her ex-daughter-in-law would send it back?

  That one confused him. Why didn’t Mom just throw it away?

  Scott had been a little boy. He wouldn’t have gone through the garbage. While he knew how to read before kindergarten, he wouldn’t have been able to read sloppy old-lady cursive at five, even if he had found it.

  Then it hit him.

  Mom wanted Nancy to know Scott didn’t get the letters.

  One would think Nancy would’ve stopped sending cards, but the last one in the box had a cap and gown sticker on it. A graduation card.

  Had Nancy continued sending them just because Mom returned them?

  Shit.

  This shoebox represented an unspoken, twenty-five-year battle between two very stubborn women.

  His stomach twisted. Whatever had gone on between them, using Scott’s youth and innocence as some sort of way to carry out their grudge match was nuts!

  He compared the addresses with the dates. There were a lot of holes in the dates as if Nancy hadn’t known where they lived. He let out of disgruntled sniff. So that’s why they moved so much. He always assumed it was because Mom wanted to be closer to some new boyfriend. Had she actually moved to get away from Nancy?

  What the hell?

  Scott chewed on his lower lip and glanced out the window. He had a strong desire to ask Phin to come over. He didn’t want to open these by himself. He paused before grabbing his iPhone. Scott didn’t have Phin’s phone number. He never had to call Phin. He would just walk outside and there he’d be with a happy smile saying, “Hey Mouse.”

  He shook his head.

  No, he had to do this on his own.

  A cold knot sat in the bottom of his stomach as he stared at a cardboard shoebox full of letters from a woman he didn’t know, returned by the woman he thought he knew.